One afternoon, as I was pocketing my commission, a miner called Barasa folded his arms and said,
"Kijana, kama unataka pesa, shuka kwa mto uchimbe na sisi leo." (If you want money, get in the river and dig with us today.)
I laughed it off, but I knew they were watching me.
The truck drivers weren’t any easier to deal with.
They hated paying commissions.
"Hiyo pesa ni mingi sana!" (That cut is too big!) they would complain.
Some even tried to cut me out by dealing directly with the miners.
I had to be sharp—to stay in control of the deals and keep the business running.
So, I made things easier for the lorry drivers.
Faster loading, no delays—guaranteed service.
In exchange, they paid me first.
It worked… for a while.
Until one day, as I was finalizing a deal, a shadow loomed over me.
A deep voice spoke:
"Kijana, hii biashara si yako. Wacha ujinga, ulikuja tu apa juzi." (Young man, this business isn’t yours. Stop playing games—you just got here recently.)
I turned to see who it was.
Standing before me was Musalia—one of Shamakhokho’s top ‘sand bosses.’
A man built like a bulldozer, with a reputation for solving problems with his fists.
I swallowed hard.
"Boss, kila mtu anaweza fanya biashara," I said, forcing a smile. (Everyone can do business.)
Musalia didn’t smile back.
"Ukitaka pesa, tafuta kazi ingine," he said. (If you want money, find another job.)
That wasn’t a suggestion.
It was a warning.
I had two choices: step back or fight for my space.
I chose option three—be smarter.
I realized that to stay in business, I needed a different approach.
I couldn’t fight Musalia—he had money, men, and muscles.
But there was something he didn’t have—relationships.
Musalia controlled the miners.
I focused on the truck owners.
I made their work easier—fast deals, no delays, guaranteed workers.
Slowly, some drivers preferred working with me instead of going through Musalia’s system.
I increased their pay slightly—not too much, just enough to keep them on my side.
Instead of fighting me, they started seeing me as a better alternative.
I stopped being loud about my wins.
I worked quietly, efficiently, and stayed out of trouble.
No more big announcements.
No more bragging.
Just business.
One evening, as I was sealing another deal, Musalia’s men appeared.
This time, they weren’t talking.
They grabbed my collar, pulled me aside, and one of them whispered,
"Umecheza na biashara ya watu wakubwa." (You’ve messed with big people’s business.)
I knew I had pushed too far.
This wasn’t just hustling anymore—it was war.
And in Shamakhokho, when a war starts, it only ends one way.
That night, I made a decision.
I was getting out of the sand business.
Not because I was scared (okay, maybe a little), but because I knew there was always another hustle.
A smarter one.
By the time I walked away, I had learned three things:
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Every industry has gatekeepers. If you challenge them, be ready for war.
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Money moves where there’s convenience. If you solve a problem, people will pay.
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Know when to leave. Some fights aren’t worth it.
Shamakhokho still has too many opportunities.
If I could make money from sand, I’d find another way.
But this time, I’ll stay ahead of the game.
Because one thing is clear—I’m not done hustling.
And Shamakhokho isn’t ready for my next move.
